


The North Wind's Lord

by Mice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 18:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: It was May before the people in Greg's village began to understand that the winter wasn't ending. The snow refused to melt, the air would not warm.This is the story of an endless winter, the harsh north wind, and a somewhat cranky sorcerer.





	The North Wind's Lord

**Author's Note:**

> For the Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, with thanks to Mottlemoth and Egmon73 for organizing it. As always, awesome beta props to Random-Nexus, who is actually my evil twin, but don't tell anyone.

It was May before the people in Greg's village began to understand that the winter wasn't ending. The snow refused to melt, the air would not warm. Cattle and sheep gave birth in the freezing cold, and the trees that tried to bud were blighted by the weather.

By June, the people were afraid. The land was still snowy and frozen, and the ground couldn't be prepared for crops. Nothing could be planted. The winter's stores of grain and vegetables had dwindled to their dregs. Lambs and calves and colts were dying from the cold and lack of forage.

"The Matriarchs Council met today," Sally said, when Greg saw her in the afternoon, as she'd come around to have her leather coat repaired. "We've asked Molly to dream for the village tonight. Maybe she'll be able to find out why the winter hasn't ended."

Greg nodded. "It's a good idea. I know there have been long winters before, but I've never heard of one like this. My gran, she told me once about a winter that lasted until May, when she was just a child. This, though -- we'll starve if it lasts too much longer. Without a growing season, we'll have to rely on hunting or fishing. The trees will start to die. The herds won't have enough to eat."

"I know." Sally sat at Greg's table when he gestured to a chair. He set some water boiling. He'd plucked some cedar leaves that afternoon, one of the few green things left, to make some winter tea. "Soon we're going to send people out to see how far this extends. Many of the other nearby villages are affected, I know, but how many days' walk is it to find spring again? How far will we have to go for anything green and growing?"

Greg sat with her at the table and examined the worn place on the elbow of her coat's sleeve as he waited for the water to boil. "What do we have left that we can trade for more grain?"

"If the hunters bring back more animals, perhaps fur," Sally said, shrugging. "Though we're going to need more ourselves to stay warm."

"And everyone else will be doing the same. Will we have to move the village, do you think?" The coat would need a patch, rather than just having the worn seam resewn. The leather at the elbow was too thin to support new stitches.

Sally sighed. "The Matriarchs are considering the idea, but if all the villages that are affected decide to migrate, it's likely there will be fighting. Who would welcome entire villages into their forests and fields when they have to support their own people? How far would we have to go to find uninhabited land that would support us all?"

"It's dark times," Greg said, with a dispirited nod of accord. He set the coat down and added a large handful of cedar leaves to the boiling water. "I'm not eager to move and I'm even less eager to fight, but I don't want to see anyone starving."

"I'm with you. Best to wait for Molly's dreaming, though. Maybe she'll have a message from the spirits for us, something we can do to drive the winter away."

Greg nodded. "I hope so. Can you leave the coat with me for a day or two? I need to patch it for you."

"That's fine," she said. "Do you have some fur to line the collar? It's not quite warm enough anymore."

"I might be able to find enough scraps to do that, if you don't mind that the fur won't all match." He stirred the cedar leaves a few times and looked at the colour of the liquid. It had only been a couple of minutes and he didn't think the tea was strong enough yet.

"Warm," Sally said. "That's all I really care about right now. Being warm and not being hungry or ill."

Greg smiled sadly and nodded his head. "Sensible. You can wrap your hands around a hot mug of winter tea in just a couple of minutes."

"It smells lovely. Do you have something to eat tonight? I still have a small pumpkin in my cellar. There's enough for soup for two if you don't."

"One of the hunters brought me a rabbit today. It's part of the fur I'll be using for your collar once I've tanned the hide. We could share the two, do you think?" The tea looked the right colour now. He poured it into two mugs and brought them to the table, setting one before Sally.

She took the thick clay mug between her slender, brown hands and held it up to her lips, breathing in deeply. "Bring it over to mine tonight, if you like. The soup will be more awkward to carry than a rabbit. We can roast it over my fire."

"It might go farther if we add it to the soup," Greg suggested. He sipped at his tea, glad for its strong flavour and the heat of it. He'd be even more grateful for the pumpkin soup later in the evening.

Sally smiled and nodded. "Sounds lovely. Having a bit of meat in the soup would make it much better for both of us."

***

Everyone in the village was there when Molly crawled from the small wicker hut the next morning. Mrs Turner, the eldest of the village, offered her a hand to help her to her feet. "What gifts did the spirits bring?" she asked.

Molly wobbled slightly, then steadied. "They have given a dream," she answered.

"Our thanks to the spirits for the gift," Greg murmured, offering the ritual reply with everyone else.

"Come, let's take this into the long house," Mrs Turner said, leading Molly toward the village's large central structure. Everyone followed, eager to hear what the cause of their winter might be.

Once inside, Molly was brought to the high seat, on a platform raised a little above the rest, so that everyone could see and hear her more easily. Their oracle was a competent but timid young woman, with mouse-brown hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. She eased herself gently back into the cushions and looked out at the assembled villagers. "It's a curse," she said.

Everyone murmured uneasily. "We're cursed?" Mrs Turner said. "How have we offended the spirits? What have we done?"

Molly shook her head. "No, no. We're not cursed, just, it's a curse that's causing this. Everyone else is caught up in it."

"What can we do to break it?" Philip asked.

Greg, standing next to him, nodded in agreement with the question. "What caused the curse?" he added.

Molly sipped at the mug of hot milk she'd been handed, cupping her palms around it to preserve the warmth. "I saw a man," she said, her voice firm and clear. "It might not have been a man, but he seemed a man in my dream. He was carved of glass, or ice. He wore armour like one of the great lords from the cities of the south, in white and blue like glaciers. A great wind emanated from him without ceasing, but he did not command the wind. I saw him in a cave, cold and alone."

"An evil sorcerer?" Sally asked. She leaned against Philip and he put an arm around her.

Molly thought for a moment then shook her head. "I don't think so. I think he represents the focus of the curse, not the source of it. If we can find this cave, we might find the cold lord within. I don't know what we must do to break the curse, but that's where we'll find the answers."

"Then we must send hunters to seek out this cave and the icy lord within," Mrs Turner said. "Once they've been found, we can decide what must be done."

With that, the village began to plan how the hunters would search, and where each of them would go so that their seeking would cover the most ground without missing anything.

***

It was Anthea who returned a week later with the news.

"It was as Molly dreamed," she said. "There was a cave, and I saw the man in icy armor, just as she described. He was silent, and walked through the frozen forest alone. All around the cave, though, were statues of ice – hunters, warriors, knights. There were nearly a dozen of them."

"It's good you didn't try to approach him," Mrs Turner said, patting Anthea on the shoulder. "That was wise."

Molly offered quiet words. "We should send someone to speak to him. Perhaps he knows how the curse may be broken."

"I'll go," Greg said.

"You might die," Philip told him, concern in his voice.

Greg looked at him. "If the winter doesn't end, we'll all die. Someone has to go. Would that be you?"

Philip shook his head. "I've too much to do here."

Mrs Turner looked at Greg. "You're one of our wisest, Greg. Perhaps you can find an answer for this. I think you have the best chance of all of us."

"I'll make you a map," Anthea said. "The cave is about three day's walk from here."

***

They'd given Greg some dried fruits and meat from what remained of the village's supplies for the trip. He packed his warmest clothing, a small tent, and a bedroll with a small down-filled blanket. He had a few items for repairs and emergencies. He carried a boar spear for defense and a bow and arrows for hunting, hoping he'd be able to supplement the travel rations they'd given him for the week he would be gone.

Three days, maybe, to the cave. He wondered if he'd survive the encounter; he might not need the supplies they'd given him for the return.

He spent the three days of his journey wondering what he would say to the icy lord when he arrived. Could the man speak? Anthea hadn't reported that he'd said anything, or even tried to speak.

Why had the man been cursed in the first place? Was he evil, or just a victim? Curses could be very complicated to break. Greg was a smart enough man, but he was just a leatherworker from a small village. He wasn't very educated, and he was certainly no magician. Volunteering had been madness, but Greg didn't know what else he could have done.

On the second day, Greg was attacked by a young, starving bear cub. He killed it, purely out of self defense, but the fur would be useful, and the meat would be good. He cooked some and ate well that night as he cleaned the hide, hoping the cub's mother was nowhere near. The rest of the meat he cut into smaller portions so that he could carry it away. He wasn't able to keep all of it, but what he was able to bring with him would be welcome at home when he returned. If he returned.

***

Late on the third day, Greg found the cave. He didn't see the man of ice, but he did see the frozen people Anthea had spoken of. The snow here was coated with a crust so solid that he could walk upon it without sinking down into it. Because of this, there were no tracks anywhere nearby.

The wind here was colder than any Greg had ever known. His nose and the tips of his ears, his fingers, and his toes were all painful from the cold, despite his fur-lined hat, his grey wool scarf, and his good gloves. He went into the cave to look for the frozen lord, but found no one. There was very little in the cave – a chair carved out of ice, and a slab that he thought must serve as a bed. There was no food, no place that had ever seen a fire, and no basin for water, though that would have been frozen through, had it been there.

"What a terrible existence," Greg muttered. He put his pack down on the bed. The cave was frigid but at least it was out of the wind, so Greg found a place that seemed good to start a fire and settled in to wait by the warming flames. 

Some time later, a voice startled Greg out of his half-sleep at the fire. "Have you come to kill me?"

Greg looked up. The man was tall and thin, his body clear as water, with intricate armor of white and glacial blue. His features were elegant and striking, with a long, sharp nose and thin lips. Greg got slowly to his feet. "I hope not," he said. "I just want to find a way to end the curse, and the winter. My people are starving. Food is running low. Our herds are dying and we can plant no crops with the ground frozen and covered by snow."

The strange man regarded him quietly for a moment, his head tilted slightly to one side. "What is your name?" he asked, his voice soft and hesitant.

"I'm Greg Lestrade. Who are you? _What_ are you?"

The man looked down at the fire, glistening. There was an unearthly beauty in the way the flickering light moved on him. "I am Mycroft Holmes. I was a lord in a great city once. Now, I am as you see me." He gestured to himself. He looked up again. "You are the first one who's come that has bothered trying to speak with me."

"Do you know how to break the curse?"

Mycroft sighed and shook his head sadly. "No. I imagine if I die it will probably end but, as you can see by the unfortunates outside, the north wind will not allow my death. It slays those who attack me."

Greg looked at the fire, a bit worried now. "Is this... will you melt if I keep the fire here?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. If the fire were a threat to me, I suspect you would be yet another frozen corpse right now."

"How were you cursed, and why?" Greg asked.

Mycroft seated himself on the chair carved of ice. "A sorcerer cursed me because she said I was cold and distant from those around me."

"And were you?" Greg seated himself by the fire again.

Mycroft nodded, still staring at the fire. "I don't believe I was ever deliberately cruel but yes, I am cold and distant. I kept everyone away so nothing would interfere with my ability to analyze information. I made all my decisions based on logic and reason, and allowed no emotion to sway me. Sometimes people were hurt by my actions." He shifted uncomfortably. "In my defense, I always tried to do what was right for the greatest number of people."

"And something you did offended the sorcerer."

"I assume so, yes."

"Maybe," Greg suggested, "we should talk to her. Ask her how to break the curse. I'd like to help, if I can."

Mycroft looked up at Greg again. "You would help me, rather than trying to find a way to kill me? What if she refuses to tell you? What if there is no way to break the curse?"

Greg shrugged. "I guess we'll figure something else out, then."

"That's... very optimistic of you."

"Maybe there's another sorcerer somewhere who can counteract it. I don't know. We won't know anything unless we try. Where does this sorcerer live? How long will it take to find her?"

"She lives in a hut in a forest about a week's journey south of here, at the very edge of the land where I once lived."

Greg looked out at the fading light. "It's too late today to start traveling. My village is three days to the west of here. Between the food I brought and the meat from a kill yesterday, I should have enough for our journey." He looked around the cave. "Do you eat? Are you able to, in that form?"

"I have no need for food like this, nor water, nor heat." Greg thought that Mycroft seemed very sad as he said it, his clear, glassy eyes looking off, unfocused, into the distance.

"Are you cold?" Greg asked, quietly, wondering how the man had lived for what must have been months like this.

Mycroft shook his head. "I don't feel the cold anymore, not really. It's kind of you to ask."

"I wouldn't want you to suffer."

Mycroft looked at him, confused. "After all I have done, and how much everyone has suffered due to my curse?"

"Perhaps it won't last too much longer."

Mycroft rose from his chair of ice. "If we are to begin our journey tomorrow morning, you will need to rest tonight. Eat, if you like. You may stay here in the cave, sheltered from the wind while you sleep. It won't be warm, but it will be less exposed."

"Thank you, Mycroft." He rose and gathered his pack from where it lay on Mycroft's cold bed. "I've a warm bedroll and I can put my tent in the corner here by the fire. I'll be warmer tonight than I have been in the forest as I traveled. I thank you for your hospitality."

"Such as it is," Mycroft replied.

Greg smiled at him. "It's enough."

***

They set out the next morning just after dawn. The wind was high where Mycroft walked, and a fine snow fell, the cold chilling Greg through. He shivered but kept moving, knowing that he would only get colder if they stopped.

Greg spoke to Mycroft of his village and his friends and, gradually, on the fourth day, Mycroft opened up and responded to him, speaking of the city where he had ruled. It took time, into the fifth day, but Greg learned of Mycroft's family, and the uncle who had ruled before him, who taught him that caring for others was a weakness that could not be tolerated.

Mycroft asked about Greg's family, and he told Mycroft about his parents, both dead now, and his sister who had married and gone to a village many weeks' travel to the east. He spoke also of his wife, whom he'd met when they were young, but who had abandoned him for a blacksmith in another village the year before.

"I don't understand why anyone would leave you for another," Mycroft said, his glass-clear face pinched into a confused expression. "You seem like a terribly kind man. I have the gift of deduction, and I can see clearly the marks upon you of honesty and compassion, of loyalty and a desire to aid others. Who would not want such a person?"

Greg shrugged, still stung by the whole thing. "I suppose I wasn't exciting enough for her, or perhaps I wasn't able to give her enough of what she was looking for, whatever that was. I could never figure it out." He sighed, his breath puffing out, steaming into the frozen air. "I try not to think too much about it, I guess."

"It causes you pain," Mycroft said, his voice soft and careful as the snow fell around them.

"It shouldn't. It's been near a year now." Greg's voice was rough with emotion.

"Had I ever known a man like you," Mycroft whispered, "I would not..." He fell silent and shook his head.

"I'm all right, Mycroft. Really. You shouldn't worry about me." He reached out and touched the man, fingers of flesh twining with fingers of ice. They were so cold they burned, even through his gloves, but Greg held on.

Mycroft gasped and stumbled, and Greg caught him before he fell to the ground. "Mycroft! What happened? Did I hurt you when I touched you?" He was frantic as he heard Mycroft cry out in pain, curling into himself in Greg's arms as they collapsed to their knees.

"It's... Greg..." Mycroft shivered and Greg watched in horror as his icy armor shattered. His very body seemed to shatter as well, and Mycroft screamed, clear ice falling from the flesh that had lain hidden beneath.

"Mycroft!"

"Cold... so c-cold..."

Greg found himself clinging to a naked man of flesh and bone, and Mycroft shuddered violently. He was wet from the ice that had fallen from his form, and Greg suddenly realized that the fine, falling snow around them had turned to drizzle. "It's raining," he said, stunned. Mycroft whimpered in pain and Greg's attention snapped back to him. "Oh gods, you're wet and freezing. We have to get you warm and dry or you'll die out here." He dropped his pack and dug into it, moving with urgent purpose. A moment later, he'd come up with a cloth to dry him, and a spare set of clothing. He helped the shivering man into his clothes, wrapped him in the small down blanket, then tucked him into his bedroll.

"Look, Mycroft, I'm going to get you into the tent as soon as it's up, and then I'll start a fire. We'll get you something hot to drink and then I can crawl in there with you until you're warm."

Mycroft was shuddering violently in the bedroll now, unable to speak because of the tremors in his muscles, but he nodded with sharp, jerky motions.

"It's okay, you're going to be okay. I don't know what happened, but I think the curse is broken. It's _raining_ , Mycroft. The air is warm enough for it to rain! It hasn't rained in months!"

Greg's thoughts spun as he finished putting the tent up and helped Mycroft move inside, out of the drizzle. He got a fire started as quickly as he could, then began heating some water. He offered a little dried meat to his traveling companion, who accepted it gratefully, with one pale, trembling hand.

It took about an hour to get everything settled and a bowl of hot soup into Mycroft. Greg was relieved to see some colour finally coming into the man's cheeks as the soup helped to warm him.

"Do you think you'll be all right?" He held Mycroft in his arms, both of them wrapped in his bedroll in the tent.

"I think so?" Mycroft rasped. Greg pressed his cheek to Mycroft's, pleased that he'd finally stopped shivering.

"What happened?" Greg murmured. "Why is the curse broken?"

Mycroft shook his head, snuggling more deeply into Greg's arms. "I don't know. Perhaps it was your touch that did it, but that doesn't make sense."

"The sorcerer will know. Maybe she'll tell us."

"How will I walk through the snow? I have no shoes."

Greg thought for a moment. He didn't have an extra pair. "I can make some for you with the bear skin I have in my pack. They won't be very good, but with the fur inside, and my spare wool socks, they should be warm enough. We'll just have to keep checking to make sure you don't get your feet cold enough to lose any toes."

"That's..."

"Yeah, I know, it's as awful as it sounds." Greg stroked his fingers through Mycroft's dark brown-auburn hair. "I'll do my best to take care of you, I promise. Once we figure out what's going on and everything's resolved, I'm sure you'll want to go back home again." Greg felt a strange spike of sadness at the thought.

"You... would take care of me?" Mycroft's grey-blue eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"Why wouldn't I?" Greg asked. "It seems to be because of me that you're flesh and blood again. You've got nothing right now, and your home is far from here. I know you were the source of the curse, but you didn't intend for anyone to be harmed. Nothing you've said since we met suggests that you're evil."

"Were you hoping for some reward?" Mycroft's eyes narrowed.

The question stung. "Why would you think that?"

"Because it's what anyone else would want. It's what I've dealt with all my life. Everyone wants something." Mycroft sounded angry and bitter.

Greg shook his head. "Maybe in the great city where you live it's like that. Most people in my village just want to live quietly, with enough to eat, with good health, and with enough warmth through the winter." Greg thought of how his wife had left him. "Maybe to have someone to share it with," he said, digging into his pack for the bearskin so he could make shoes for Mycroft. "That's not something even a lord can grant. No one can command another's affections."

"You miss the woman who abandoned you."

"No, I don't miss her. I just miss... I miss having someone to share my life with, someone to lie with at night, someone to talk to, who's there for me. Someone I can be there for, as well." He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, then found a needle and some thin cord he'd put in his pack in case he'd needed to make emergency repairs to his tent. The shoes would be more rough moccasins than anything decent, but as long as they held together until he could get Mycroft to a place where better could be made or acquired, they would do.

"And there's no one in your village who would give you that?" Mycroft seemed oddly persistent about Greg's loss.

He looked up at Mycroft. "Not really, no. I have many friends, but no one I'm attracted to. No one that interests me in that way. I've had a few offers. Molly, our oracle, has been very kind, but she's quite timid and I prefer someone with a more forceful personality, I think." He held up the bearskin. "I need to trace your feet so I know where to cut the hide to make your shoes." Greg reached out of the tent and pulled a fragment of charred wood from the fire, dousing the heat in the snow. It would make an acceptable temporary mark for his measure.

Mycroft cautiously rolled back the bottom of the bedroll and exposed one foot. Greg took it gently in hand, feeling the man tremble at his touch. He placed Mycroft's foot on the raw side of the skin and traced around it, then made the other necessary marks to create the sides of the moccasin.

"And the other," he said, doing the same with Mycroft's other foot. His skin was pale and soft; it was the foot of a man who'd always worn fine shoes and delicately made stockings. Greg's finger slid along the tender arch as he tucked Mycroft's foot back into the bedroll, and Mycroft shivered.

Greg cut the bear hide and stitched it roughly together with the fur inside, then helped Mycroft try on the shoes. "Do they fit?"

"They seem slightly large, but I believe when I'm wearing the socks you suggested, they will be serviceable enough. You're quite talented." Mycroft's voice was quiet in the close warmth of the tent.

"They should last at least the couple of days it will take us to get to the sorcerer's home. She's... Well, she's not an evil sorcerer, is she?" Greg asked as he tugged the shoes off and set them with his own in a corner of the tent where they'd stay dry.

Mycroft chuckled wryly. "She might best be described as… erm... cantankerous. I can't say that she's exactly _evil_ , however."

"So we're going to the home of the cantankerous sorcerer. Do you suppose she might have anything better for you to wear? Or, at least, materials we can use to make better things for you." He eased himself back into the bedroll, checking to be sure Mycroft was warming sufficiently. "Are you comfortable enough?"

"For one so isolated, she always seemed quite reasonably supplied. She might have a way to clothe me in something a little more appropriate." He leaned back into Greg's arms. "And yes, I'm finding this very comfortable. I'm much warmer now, thank you." Mycroft sighed quietly, staring at the fire. Greg held him close, as there wasn't much room in the bedroll.

"You've said your uncle taught you that to care for others was a weakness. Have you never had friends, nor anyone close to you?" Greg asked the question as gently as he could, knowing it might sound insulting, but curious nonetheless. 

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. "While I'm no blushing virgin, I must admit that I have never allowed anyone close to me, no." He shook his head. "Cold and distant, remember."

"You're neither cold nor distant right now," Greg replied, running one gentle hand up Mycroft's arm from elbow to shoulder.

Mycroft turned his head and looked at Greg. "The circumstances are quite different. There have been any number of people who have tried to inveigle themselves into my life, but they never had any interest in me, only in the wealth and power they believed I could supply them if they pleased me."

Greg found the thought appalling. "I'm sorry."

Mycroft gave a slight shrug. "It was as my uncle said."

"Your people sound unpleasant, Mycroft. Unkind."

"They are no better nor worse than any others. I didn't encourage any emotional connection. It couldn't be expected that I should find a rapport with anyone after such a life." Mycroft sighed again and looked back at the fire as the day began to fade into evening.

"Did you ever want companionship? A friend or a lover?" His heart ached for the loneliness Mycroft must have felt over the years. He held him a little more tightly, and Mycroft allowed it.

"Sometimes," Mycroft whispered, "but it was never going to happen. Such a thing would be like… like encountering a unicorn in one's garden. Impossible. Unicorns don't exist."

Surprised, Greg said, "But I've seen one. Sally was with me." He pointed to a nearby pine. "It was close to us as that, with a russet hide, much like the colour of your hair, and eyes like polished iron. It stood taller than a workhorse, but slender as a deer. It had cloven hooves and one horn of ivory-gold spiraling from its head."

Mycroft turned and looked at him, squint-eyed and suspicious. "Surely not. You must have been mistaken."

Greg shook his head. "We were neither mistaken nor drunk, Mycroft. We'd had nothing to drink, nor eaten strange mushrooms. We'd not indulged in the sacred smoke of the dreaming herbs, and I work with the hides of animals. I know all the beasts of the forests and fields in this part of the world. It was no goat, nor a horse, no bull, no stag nor ram. It was nothing but itself - a unicorn."

"But - "

Greg huffed, a little annoyed. "You said yourself I bear the marks of an honest man. I'm not lying to you about this."

"Did either of you hunt it and bring its hide home?"

Greg blinked, startled by the blasphemous thought. "No! We were gathering walnuts, not hunting that day. And one doesn't murder a visitor from the realm of the spirits, as this must surely have been. It would have brought terrible luck upon us."

Mycroft regarded him, wide-eyed, for several minutes. Finally, he relaxed back into Greg's embrace. "Perhaps… perhaps a miracle may yet find me."

"I wish a miracle for you, my friend," Greg murmured.

Mycroft rested his head on Greg's shoulder. "Perhaps you are my miracle," he answered, his voice soft and hesitant.

"Perhaps," Greg answered, thoughtful, "I could be if you wished it."

They looked at one another, silent, contemplating the idea, for a very long time.

*** 

They traveled for another two and a half days, the landscape melting into spring around them as they walked. Rain fell and snow became slush. Rivulets ran in all the low places. Many of the streams they encountered were beginning to flood as the ice fragmented and the water was exposed once again. 

They spoke more intimately as time passed, sharing their secrets and their most sacred memories with one another. Mycroft's distance fell away with the melting icicles, a ruddy vigour appearing in his cheeks, and Greg was pleased to see smiles appear, though they were few and precious. Mycroft's life had been a lonely one, for all its luxury and power, and Greg only wished to make him happy and give him some ease. Affection grew in his heart like the miraculous return of buds to the trees.

The shoes Greg had made for Mycroft of uncured fur didn't keep the melting snow from soaking his feet, but the wool socks at least gave him some insulation from the worst of the cold. They stopped frequently to warm Mycroft's feet by a small fire so that he wouldn't suffer frostbite.

It was still cold when they arrived at the sorcerer's hut in the depths of the forest. Snow still lay in great drifts under the shadows of the trees, but spring had left its mark with the snowdrops and crocuses that were beginning to show their heads above the frigid white in the brighter places. They arrived in the afternoon, as brilliant beams of sunlight pierced the clouds between cold bouts of rain.

"A greeting to the house," Greg called out as they approached.

"Oh, who's there?" a woman's voice asked. A moment later, an elderly woman appeared at the door. She wasn't tall, but her greying hair was well kept, and her warm winter robes were in rich dark purples and mauves. She looked at Mycroft. "Well," she said, with a sharp hint of asperity to her voice, "I must say, you're looking a bit less reptilian these days."

"Mrs Hudson," Mycroft said, hesitant but slightly annoyed.

"I knew the curse had been broken. It's about time, really." She looked at them and her nose wrinkled. "Ugh, you both smell like ripe buck goats in rut. Go! Out the back there's a hot spring." She gestured to them and the followed her around the little hut as she shooed her goats and sheep away. She rummaged for a few moments in a cupboard behind the hut, pulling out a couple of towels and a bar of rough yellow-brown soap that smelled of honey. "Here, go wash yourselves. You're both disgusting. I've nothing to say to you til you're clean." She pointed off toward a small green hazel grove, already in leaf. Greg could see steam rising from the grove, where the hot spring was hidden.

"Thank you," Greg said, taking the items. Mrs Hudson just pointed at the grove again and scurried back into her hut. "So that's your cantankerous sorcerer?" Greg asked.

Mycroft chuckled and nodded. "I'm afraid so."

"Doesn't look terribly dangerous, but if she put that curse on you, she must be a force to be reckoned with." Greg tossed one last look over his shoulder before they entered the grove. "I wasn't expecting to be offered a bath before she let us in the door."

"I told you she wasn't evil." Mycroft stood at the edge of the hot spring, watching the steam rise from the pool, and flow out with a small stream through the shrubbery and the taller trees. He took a deep breath, then sighed. "I'm about to be warm again," he murmured, a hint of ecstasy in his voice. "Warm and clean."

"What a fantastic thought," Greg said, pulling off his coat and hanging it from one of the nearby trees. He started tugging at his clothing as Mycroft shed Greg's spare clothing. A few moments later, they both stood in the muddy verge of the spring, naked as newborns. Mycroft gaped at Greg, not having seen him unclothed before. Greg put a hand on his shoulder. "Into the spring with you. Don't stand there gawping in the snow, you'll catch your death."

Startled into compliance, Mycroft took a few steps out into the pool to where it deepened, eventually reaching his waist. He sighed in bliss as he lowered himself into the hot water, and Greg followed, both of them sitting on conveniently placed stones in the pool. "Oh, this is glorious," Mycroft moaned. He dipped his head below the water and took up the soap, then began to wash himself vigorously, the current of the spring carrying away the foam from the soap, and the dirt.

Greg smiled as he watched for a moment, then he washed himself, as well. The hot water was fantastic after so long away from his own home and the village sauna. When he felt clean enough, he reached out and took Mycroft's wrist. "Let me wash your back, then you can do mine, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded and favored him with a shy smile. "That would be wonderful." They sat on the stone seats they'd found beneath the water and Greg soaped Mycroft's back, running his hands over the man's freckled skin, massaging the tight muscles and nodding to himself as Mycroft relaxed under his fingers. "That feels very good," Mycroft breathed. He bowed his head as Greg ran his thumbs up along the bones of his neck, pressing into the base of his skull and out toward his ears.

"I'm happy to do it," Greg answered, pleased at the thought that perhaps Mycroft might favor him with such care as well. When he was finished, Mycroft was loose and relaxed and Greg slipped his arms around Mycroft's chest and held him close. Mycroft sighed and wrapped his own arms over Greg's, pressing his cheek to Greg's as they sat together in that warm embrace.

"When shall I wash yours?" Mycroft asked.

"Mmm. In a bit. I'm enjoying this." He tightened his arms slightly and Mycroft snuggled in a bit closer. 

"As am I. This is…" Mycroft fell silent. After a few moments he turned to Greg. "What happens when we've found out how the curse was broken?"

It was a question Greg had been thinking about since they'd begun their journey. Surely Mycroft would return to his city, and Greg to his village, but the loneliness he felt at that idea rose within him, almost overwhelming. "I don't know," he said quietly. "What would you like to happen?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm not certain." He took a deep breath and said, "But, whatever is decided, I would like my life to include you in some way."

Greg's heart sped and he held Mycroft tightly. "I would, too," he whispered, a fierce desire for them to remain together only growing greater in his heart. Mycroft clung to him as well, the two of them holding together as tightly as leaves folded into a bud before its bursting. "We've grown so close in the short time since I met you. I would hate to lose that."

"You are the only friend I've ever had," Mycroft said, raising his chin from Greg's shoulder to look him in the eyes.

Greg knew the kiss was coming before Mycroft's lips met his. It was soft and tentative at first but shifted and grew firmer and more confident when Greg responded, opening his mouth to Mycroft's gently seeking tongue. Mycroft made a small, desperate sound and wrapped himself around Greg like ivy around an oak, and Greg held on, filling the kiss with all the affection that had bloomed within him for the man in his arms. Mycroft's kiss was tender as a seedling, and Greg held him with infinite care.

Finally, slowly, Mycroft withdrew. He looked at Greg with curiosity in his eyes and Greg smiled at him. "Let me wash your back," Mycroft murmured, and Greg nodded.

"That sounds fantastic." Mycroft's hands were strong and capable and Greg let himself relax beneath them, enjoying the man's touch. He breathed slowly and steadily, just focusing on the press of fingers into tight muscles, and sighed as the knots released one by one. Much as he didn't want the quiet moment between them to end, he knew they had to return to the sorcerer to have Mycroft's mystery resolved. "I should wash our clothes. They're as ripe as we were," he said.

"But what would we wear?" Mycroft's voice was uneasy.

"The towels she gave us, for the moment. The clothes should dry fairly quickly near her fire. Besides, you need better than what I gave you. They're a bit short on you, after all." Greg sloshed over to the edge of the spring and took up their clothing. He saw that there were stones near the spring's outlet where Mrs Hudson obviously did her washing, and set to the clothing with the soap. Mycroft watched in fascination. "Have you never seen someone washing clothes before?" Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. There were always others who did the work for my family, and it was always done far from us."

Greg shook his head, not understanding how such a thing could be, but continued washing the clothes. He was very much aware of Mycroft watching him closely as he worked. It took only a few minutes to clean everything and he had Mycroft help him wring the water from the cloth before they dried themselves and wrapped the towels around their bodies, hurrying through the snow so that their feet wouldn't grow too cold on the way back to Mrs Hudson's hut.

She offered them hot tea and some blankets when they came to her door, inviting them in and letting them sit in comfortable chairs by the fire. "Mycroft has nothing that fits him properly, and no good shoes at all," Greg said, as they sipped at the tea.

"I noticed, dear," she answered. "I think I can come up with something. My former husband was about your size," she said to Mycroft. "They're some years old, but the clothing should suit the weather, at least."

Mycroft thanked her when she handed him trousers and a warm wool tunic from a chest at the foot of her bed. "What broke the curse that you put on me?" he asked, as he donned the clean clothing.

Mrs Hudson chuckled and handed him a pair of sturdy boots, as well. "Well, you fell in love, didn't you. It's usually true love that breaks a curse, don't you know."

Mycroft blushed and looked away from her, not meeting Greg's eyes. 

Greg glared at her. "Why would you do that?" he asked, angry at the seemingly impossible task she'd set. "That curse was killing people. The north wind raged at all who came to him. How would anyone even get close enough to speak with Mycroft? He might never have had a chance at all!"

She turned to him, one eyebrow raised. "Seems to me that you got close enough."

He turned to the other man. "Mycroft, is it true?" he asked, confused, hoping he didn't sound like he was accusing him of anything. "You fell in love with me?" Mycroft nodded without looking up, his expression guarded. Greg reached across to him and took his hand. "Please, look at me." He tugged at Mycroft's hand and Mycroft looked up, meeting his eyes. Greg could see the hesitance and the worry on his face. "It's okay," Greg murmured, pressing his lips to the back of Mycroft's hand.

"Oh, look at you both," Mrs Hudson cooed. "Will you be sweeping him off to the city now, Mycroft? I'm not sure how your brother will take things if you show up again."

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, a small, painful sound. "Sherlock never takes anything well if it has to do with me."

"Do you not want to go home again?" Greg asked, surprised.

Mycroft looked at him. "I've no idea what I want to do now," he admitted. The hesitance and the tension in his face tugged at Greg's heart.

"Then come back to my village with me." Greg's fingers tightened around Mycroft's hand. "I'm sure we can find a place for you, something for you to do. You… could stay with me, if you wanted. There's enough room for two."

"I'm sure your village will have a place for an overly curious and ridiculously powerful wizard," Mrs Hudson said, nodding her approval despite the sharpness of her tone.

"You're a wizard?

"Yes." Mycroft nodded. "But of knowledge, of information. I can't make things appear out of nothing, nor change the shapes of things. As I told you, I have the gift of deduction. I have a talent for understanding how diverse and obscure facts fit together into patterns. I was consulted by powerful people from many lands for advice before..." He hesitated, then continued. "Before the curse."

Mrs Hudson leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea. "Oh, once they find you again, they'll be back bringing gifts and questions, make no mistake. Should only take a few weeks, really. I'm sure a little bird will inform the right ears. Annoying as you are, the world needs people like you."

"I'm certain that will thoroughly vex my brother. He does so like to be the center of attention." Mycroft sounded almost pleased by that thought. He smiled wryly. Greg wondered what he'd got himself into the middle of, but the light in Mycroft's eyes was enough to convince him that he'd done a good thing in offering Mycroft a home.

Mrs Hudson chuckled. "He'll live. And so will you. I foresee a long and happy life for you and your beloved." She smiled at Greg and indicated Mycroft with the shrug of one shoulder. "He's a bit of a prat, but I can see that you deserve some happiness, and he's the steady, faithful sort, Mycroft is." Mycroft tilted an eyebrow at her. "Oh, hush, you know it's true. Some days you're an utter twat." Mycroft scowled and opened his mouth to speak, but Greg interrupted.

"Do you actually know anyone who's not?" Greg asked. "I've talked to him at length for days now. He's been upset sometimes, and occasionally a bit sharp with me, but that's just human, isn't it?" Mycroft's smile lightened Greg's heart.

*** 

Greg could hear the people of his village singing the planting songs as he and Mycroft approached through the forest. After the snow melted, everything seemed to recover as though the endless winter had never occurred. Flowers bloomed, blighted trees budded, and the plants grew far more quickly than normal. Mrs Hudson had assured him that the fields would grow and ripen in that blessed and magical manner throughout that year, and that none would have to starve because of the delay in the beginning of spring.

Sally and Anthea spotted him first as they emerged from the forest along the path. "Greg! You're home! We thought you'd perished!" Sally shouted. The others looked up and, moments later, the entire village rushed across the newly ploughed, partially planted fields and toward him on the path.

The two of them were greeted with embraces and excitement as Greg introduced Mycroft to everyone. "He's come to stay with us," Greg said, one arm wound about Mycroft's waist.

"I hope that I can contribute something of value to your village and your people," Mycroft said.

Molly tilted her head and grinned. "I think you already have. I've not seen Greg looking so happy in years."

"Come," Mrs Turner said. "Join us in the fields, and at the celebration of the planting tonight."

Greg took Mycroft in his arms before his people and kissed him. "Welcome home, Mycroft," he said. "Welcome home."

\--end--


End file.
